Empty Backyard

Who will feed my birds when I am gone,My hands no longer able to spread the seed,My ears forever heedless to their chat,When they stir my backyard back to lifein the evening twilight?

And when my eyes caress no more their plumes,Who will gaze at them leaping from the trees,Hopping, pecking, nibbling among the roses,Fluttering living notes in a musical staffWritten on air?

Who will startle them momentarily?Who will see them return, suspicious thoughPersistent friends, used to that intercourseKnown only to the heart,Beyond all cast of doubt and fear?

When I am gone, will my birds come looking for me?Where do birds go to die? And where doTheir feathers mix with fallen leaves and flowers,Their ardent blood becoming nourishmentOf docile grass?

And where their tender flesh, their tenuous skin,Their valiant heart, their tuneful tiny brain,Their fragile nerves, their eyes, diminutiveAnd yet enormous worlds, their trifling bonesGo when they are gone?